


Of Red Apples

by chartreuseocean



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-02-04 17:56:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18609598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chartreuseocean/pseuds/chartreuseocean
Summary: More scenes between Mary/Lilith and Adam, between the sweet dinner and the horrifying dinner. Canon





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still, it soothes her, somehow, that the arm around her shoulder is understanding, that this gentle man Adam was born of that callous man Adam. It soothes her that blessings could come from wickedness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some thoughts on when she said “He was cruel to me. He was only ever cruel.” It seems like she was talking about Adam, because she later tells Sabrina that Satan was "gentle" to her at the beginning. This is just a version of what was going through her mind as she said that.

When Adam, the original Adam, was stripped of eternal life and cast out of the garden, she was positively gleeful.

 

She would live because she left him, threw mortality in his face, and found strength in being his equal, equally strong-willed and equally clever, if not more. And she believed that truth, for many millennia, that her existence proved her innate worth, that she was superior to the first man born of the earth, because she had in Lucifer Morningstar a better master than the False God.

 

She had felt pride then, a vengeful pride, that she would live and he would not. One day he would breathe his last, and remain lifeless for eternity.

 

 _He will die_ , she told herself, _and from that day he will be nothing._

 

And he wasn’t anything. His mortal children were simply wanderers, heretics, slothful, unenlightened moments of being. Each mortal life ended as soon as it began, and continued their idolatry of the False Gods, paying no heed to the true origin of their supposed wisdom. In this she found a comfort of sorts. _What idiot would trade immortality for as many descendants as there are stars in the sky?_

 

But as Lucifer morphed into the Dark Lord, growing hooves and horrifying tendencies of brutal, unadulterated anger, she wondered. But she resolved, in that moment of weakness, that mortals are worthless, and to cement that thought deep into her mind, she began to feast on men; the more like Adam, the better.

 

In the interregnum, the Dark Lord played games. At first it was to test her loyalty, then it was to test her will, then it was to test her strength, until at last He broke her. After that, the games became cruelty, humiliation, sadism, and all she could do was cower beneath Him, and tend to His every whim. He enjoyed watching her lose. _Lilith, Lilith, how naive you are; you know I always win._

 

He had been cruel for so long, she forgets there was a time when he wasn’t.

 

Adam’s bones had long turned to ashes, but even then, in her blind need to remain superior, she didn’t quite see that the Dark Lord had no regard for her. He was King of Hell, Satan himself, the anti-Christ, and she was just a handmaiden. She may not be replaceable, but she served no greater purpose. She saw that now, abundantly clear. _Why did it take so long?_

 

Sabrina, who had played her, had been her for a night, bowed to Lucifer and promised fealty to the ends of the earth, had seen, on stage, in the midst of an act, how terribly weak, and cowardly, and despicable it was, to pledge a life to the Dark Lord, or to any being for that matter. And she, who has lived this life since the beginning of time, who prided herself on being powerful, has not admitted to herself, until now, that her loyalty has been a waste, will always be a waste, because He will never want to share what He has, will never willingly bestow gifts if He could make her do His bidding without them.

 

 _What a selfish man He is, what selfish men they both were._ In the recesses of her mind, a voice reminds her, _not Adam. No, not that Adam_ , she concedes, but he’s just one mortal man, and mortals as a whole are the most selfish of all.

 

She forces herself to stop contemplating the past; it does her no good to regret. Regret is just an empty, destructive hollow in the soul.

 

Still, it soothes her, somehow, that the arm around her shoulder is understanding, that this gentle man Adam was born of that callous man Adam. It soothes her that blessings could come from wickedness.

 

She thinks of His order, to end all this and continue with her given task. He thinks she should kill him; that’s what He means. She thinks she might have to kill Him.

 

She imagines her sweet, obedient demons reaching for His clumsy hooves as He climbs higher to escape their reach. She imagines His expression fearful, betrayed, like she was when He forced her into His service. She has never seen Him afraid before; has He ever been afraid? Was He afraid of the False God? Her lips twist with the prospect of His fear. Lilith, First among Witches, Mother of Demons, Fear of Satan, and then… Queen of Hell.

 

When He’s vanquished the demons, she will step in, look down at His weak, useless horns and the hideous prison of a body the False God condemned Him to, and tell Him all she’s mulled over since the beginning of His cruelty. She will tell Him how many times, as He sat by the fire in Mary Wardwell’s house, she thought of their roles reversed: Him groveling at her feet, and she taunting Him out of spite.

 

And then she will kill Him. She will turn on Him as she should’ve done long, long ago, if it wasn’t for the foolishness He gave her, and the desperation He forced upon her. Weakness of the subservient kind, worlds apart from that when Adam, Mary’s Adam is around.

 

 _He’s more of a man, more of an angel, than you ever were_ , she will spit. And that will break Him once and for all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She wondered, for a split second that was almost a minute, what it would feel like if he tried to kill her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of the last chapter. More dialogue, less musings.

“You’re thinking so much your brows are furrowed.” He tilts his head and turns to look at her quizzically.

 

She shakes herself out of her dark musings and feels her expression soften. “I was just thinking about… all the work I have to do.”

 

“Mary, you work so hard, too hard sometimes.” His tone is full of admiration, laced with an urgent concern. “What do you say I give you a massage?”

 

Wordlessly, without her reply, he moves to stand. He brushes her hair to a side over her shoulder and rounds the couch until he’s behind her.

 

The fire is bright in the crisp spring evening, and the shadows of the flames dance on the walls, as if the whole house was engulfed in its cocoon.

 

He rests his hands on her shoulders and begins to knead away the tension, the physical tension from imagining a thousand ways to finish the Dark Lord. Her will, however, clenches ever tighter around her soul in desperate self-preservation.

 

She allows her eyes to darken as they always do when she’s alone. Mary’s eyes are always a little distant, but soft and vaguely unaware, as if they were meandering from one thought to another, pondering the vastness of the world. Her eyes are focused and severe, and her mind refuses to release a thought until it’s been laid bare and stripped inside-out.

 

She feels him shift and her shoulders are suddenly light in the cold without his firm touch. For one terrifying moment, she sees this exact scene in flashback, when their roles were reversed, and she had crumbled his walls with a massage, and tried to stab him in the neck, violent and bloody, but merciful.

 

All at once, an irrational fear rose up from an unknown abyss. _I can’t trust him. I can never trust any man._

 

She couldn’t die, no. This mortal body could, and it would be a nuisance to find another. But she found herself afraid of pain that only a body could bring. Pain of the hidden depths of a living, breathing being, she has experienced in its full spectrum. Rejection, humiliation, dismissal, and even fear, but not physical pain, no.

 

She wondered, for a split second that was almost a minute, what it would feel like if he tried to kill her.

 

She whips around, half-fearing, half-expecting to see his expression hard with determination as he readied to plunge a long, thin nail past a major artery straight into the wooden floor.

 

“Red or white?” His voice carries over the short distance across the dining room from the kitchen.

 

She could make out his outline in the shadows, slightly hunched, rummaging around the cabinets for glasses.

 

She forces herself to exhale, and lets out a deep, shuddering breath she didn’t know she was holding.

 

“Red, please,” she says, as nonchalant as possible, as if her pulse wasn’t racing like a deluge of rain throwing itself over the edge of a waterfall.

 

“You’ve changed your taste. You used to like sweet and bubbly.”

 

She freezes. _Could he… no. No. No. No. He can’t know. There’s no way he knows._

 

“Have I? Well it’s just… I’m trying something new, that’s all.”

 

“Is this a new phase in your life, Mary? I like this new you, but of course, I like you however you are.” His voice drops to almost a whisper as he emerges into the light, his eyes sparkling with sheer contentment.

 

“Well I’m glad you like it. I just thought a… makeover was in order, you know, to celebrate you coming back after such a long time.” She adds a sultry edge to her voice, as if to slip back behind the carefully-constructed mask of the new Mary, and forget the irrationality which threatened to burst from her before.

 

He sets the glasses on the side table, and approaches softly, feet padding the soft rug just beyond the fire’s reach.

 

“You change as much as you want, Mary. Don’t ever change for me. I love you as you are. You know that right?” He crouches slightly, until he’s looking up at her, as if she was as far away as the farthest stars.

 

She glances at him, her eyes no longer dim, but brighter and more resilient. “I know, Adam. I know.”

 

He smiles then, a beautiful curve reaching the corner of his little crinkles. He stands to retrieve the glasses, and sits himself down next to her, arms intertwined, in an infinite loop.

 

“What do you say we go for a long walk tomorrow? Into the woods to the skipping stream you like? That always relaxes you. We can have a little picnic on the bank under the trees. What do you say?”

 

He was as enthusiastic as a little boy with a new toy, but perhaps that’s the point. He’s a man who’s a child, a man who hasn’t forgotten what being a child is like. And she finds herself in awe of that, somehow, of the notion of a grown-up person looking up in marvel at a little person just born of the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mulling more chapters until this is a story of sorts? Adam really was integral to Lilith's character development, wish there was more time between them on the show to see her almost-mortal side.
> 
> Comment with thoughts/prompts!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It stuns her, how he doesn’t even contemplate that he should be concerned for himself; doesn’t even think, for a fleeting point in time, that she is capable of malice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspiration from a prompt. Still a continuation of the previous chapters.

His perch was empty again, the fourth time this week. The window was open, letting in the icy wind with a hint of apologetic treachery. The hairs on her arms stand up, goosebumps rising, and she shivers.

 

She’s in her reclining chair, by the fireplace, but there is no fire, only embers fluttering in the slight breeze, cinders motionless around the blackened logs.

 

She knows he had no choice, but she feels vengeance plumb her depths anyway. He was a soul in Hell, aimless and wandering in the underworld, and that should’ve been enough. It was the least he could’ve done for her, to save his allegiances for himself, instead of prostrating before the Dark Lord.

 

Her fists are clenched so forcefully her knuckles are white as the drifting snow, white as the blinding sun.

 

She should blind him, gorge out his little marble eyes, before she makes him implode. _Yes, that would be true revenge._

 

Stolas will go to Hell when he flies back; she would make sure of that when he returns, flustered and harrowed. She wishes she could exterminate him altogether, but that would be disproportionately cruel, wouldn’t it? _Ah, but I am cruel, am I not?_ She cackles to herself, strange and unfamiliar.

 

But then she stills herself. She doesn’t have much time.

 

Adam will return soon, kiss her and brew tea, stoke the fire he knows she needs to keep burning, however inexplicable he finds it. There are a lot of things he does for her, she mulls, just because she asks.

 

She needs to greet him at the door and just take it away, with a snap of her fingers. He’d just be a stranger, at the wrong house, or a traveler, lost in the weather. Yes, that would be quick and merciful. _Merciful to whom?_ , she thinks. She knows she won't like the answer.

 

She rises and stands shakily, feet bare and legs unsteady in her determination; her hands are numb as she reaches out to close the windows and bolt them shut. This will all be done when the bird comes back. Stolas will report she killed him after all.

 

She prays the Dark Lord is in the mood for long-winded, excessive adulation, no doubt a great skill of Stolas’s.

 

She prays Adam is already on his way home. _Home_ , she thinks. _Home._

 

The notion almost plants itself into her mind, but she picks it up and hurls it far, far away. Her eyes sting, but she forcibly pushes it over the edge, watches it tip and plunge into the uncertain, teetering darkness. _Not now. Not ever again._

 

Crunching of footsteps snap her out of her reverie, and she braces herself for the encounter. _Confidence,_ she mutters to herself, as she did before every perversion Sabrina was compelled to do. _He is just a man; the death of a man is nourishment to the world._

 

He emerges into her view through the window, already pulling off mittens and unraveling his yellow checkered scarf. As he brings his hand up to knock on the door, she turns the knob and swings the door wide open, letting in a howling draught.

 

If it was cold, she could no longer sense it. Her whole being was numb and unfeeling.

 

“Oh, you’re home early! Aren’t you cold? It’s almost a blizzard out there.”

 

Before she could act on her courage, he was already past her and into the house, leaving her standing, an ill-planned barrier to his entry.

 

She could only shut the door. _Now, now,_ her subconscious chants. _Just do it._

 

He lays the scarf down on the dinner table, takes off his coat and walks toward her, drapes it around her shoulders. He reaches to wrap his hand around her knuckles.

 

“My God, you’re freezing! How long have you been like this? You’ll be sick if you keep this up.” He turns her to face him, and pulls her in tightly, cheek to cheek, arms around her shoulders in a squeeze.

 

She can feel how cold she is now, as if all blood had been drained from her before, and he’s filling her veins with his.

 

It feels as if the chasm between Heaven and Hell was wedged into the invisible space between them.

 

She wrenches herself from his hug with a harshness she didn’t anticipate. “I’m fine. I’m warmer now.”

 

His arms drop hesitantly to his sides. “Are you sure you feel alright? Let me make some tea, at least. I’ll put the kettle on.”

 

He takes a step back, gives her a lingering look, and turns to make his way to the kitchen.

 

As his eyes break from hers, there is a second of clarity. Her pale, thin arm shoots out from under his coat to grasp his hand, thick and muscular from the years of work among the downtrodden of his world.

 

His eyes dart up in surprise, alarmed and questioning all at once, but she maintains her grip on him, unrelenting.

 

“What is it? What’s the matter? Is something wrong?”

 

It stuns her, how he doesn’t even contemplate that he should be concerned for himself; doesn’t even think, for a fleeting point in time, that she is capable of malice.

 

Her eyes are hard as ice, as brittle too. One crack and the water will rush to the surface.

 

“Nothing, I just… I want you to hold me again.”

 

His eyes cloud then, with an impenetrable mist that was almost grief, as if he's hiding, as if understands. As if he’s understood this whole time.

 

He embraces her, this time slow and deliberate, one inundating inspiration, as if he was breathing her in. She presses her temple to his, feeling her own pulse between the lines of her brow.

 

 _This is all the power I have_ , she thinks, _to lose him on my own terms._ It is a desperate, crippling thought, and it takes all the strength she has not to crumble from its terrible meaning.

 

Instead, she brings her hands to his face, and draws their breaths ever closer in a kiss.

 

And just as the chants in her head turn into a scream, she finds, in their closeness, the courage she lacked.

 

* * *

 

 

She turns from the window as he walks away, bewildered and confused, apologizing profusely, searching for the house of his old friend who used to live in town. She couldn’t bear to see his shallow eyes, a layer of polite facade as he turned to leave.

 

She walks, one foot in front of the other, as if in a trance, deeper into the house, until the anger pours out of her, uncontrollable and so very paralyzing, that her knees shake and she falls, heart pounding, next to the tub where she killed countless men, before they were worthy of love.

 

 _I loved him,_ she screams in the suffocating confines of her mind. _I loved him. I could’ve loved him for a long time, if it wasn’t for you._ _I would’ve loved you too, if you didn’t become this evil, this Devil, this menacing creature I don’t recognize anymore. I hate you! I hate you! I hate you more than I hate the False God!_

 

* * *

 

She jolts from her sleep in Mary Wardwell's bedroom, and sits up with a stifling gasp. Her face is wet with tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still canon so far! Mulling if I should deviate. The Dark Lord's presence is Damocles's sword, and a very dark backdrop to further their story, although it is, after much exploration, still very interesting.
> 
> There's a suggestion that at the end of Part 2, Lilith keeps her mortal form (part-time?), and Adam is still alive. Any thoughts on that?
> 
> As always, comment with thoughts/prompts!


End file.
